


Still Burning

by AntiGravitas



Series: After Paris [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, hook-ups, post-CoG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-11 09:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiGravitas/pseuds/AntiGravitas
Summary: “I had hoped to speak to you,” Graves says to him. “Just to ah, congratulate you on- your actions. Though I hadn’t expected to run into you quite so soon.”After Paris there's nothing but memories, and Newt is living with them only barely. He's certainly not expecting a shadow from his past to come walking back into his life, but here he is.





	Still Burning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vins/gifts).



> This is set in the same continuity as Playing by the Rules, but is more of a zoom-in on the throwaway line in that about the exact point at which the two of them got together. I actually wrote it first, then almost flaked out, and went to write about Hippogriffs instead. Hope you enjoy. :]

It starts some time around the end of summer, with Grindelwald in the wind and the world tilting ever further towards a future that makes the prophets tremble. Newt goes back to London because there's music that needs facing and if nothing else the Ministry will make him dance to it, no matter what he might try to tell them about fairness and morals, because their morals are all caught up in pettiness and tradition and a fear even older than that.

There's Dumbledore of course, whose word is suddenly back in favour, and he stands up for what Newt did in that strange, oblique way of his, that "Well, it got us to where we are now, didn't it?" attitude that comes with the crinkling of amusement around his eyes and the twist of his mouth that makes Newt want to both smile back and punch the expression right off his face. But Newt’s not violent, not unnecessarily so, and so he doesn’t, just winces and looks sideways at Dumbledore and resolves to watch him even more closely than he already does.

No, the voice that stands up for him comes from the least expected of places, and the first time he hears it Newt damned near makes a fool of himself all over again. He meets Percival Graves, the _real_ Percival Graves in the halls of the Ministry and he’s so shocked by the sound of his name in that man’s mouth he spills the tea he’s been given into its saucer and the whole lot nearly slips from his fingers to the floor.

“You,” he says, which is hardly articulate, but honestly he’d never thought to hear that voice again, not outside of half-buried nightmares and even if it’s not entirely fair to pin it all on him he still remembers the implacable calm in the man’s eyes as he’d sentenced Newt to death.

Percival Graves clearly knows this, for he stops a distance away that’s more than polite, and doesn’t offer a hand to be shaken. He looks like a man who has come suddenly upon a Wampus Cat in a clearing and who can now risk neither moving nor surrendering. “Mr Scamander,” he says finally. There’s a politician’s grace in his recovery, but Newt still sees the man’s throat move as he swallows, and knows that neither of them are happy right now. “I had heard you were here. I’m sorry, I should introduce myself really. Because actually-”

“We haven’t met,” Newt interrupts. “I know.”

For a moment they regard one another, and Newt, still so shocked by this sudden apparition, actually looks the man in the eyes without really meaning to, and in an instant regrets it. It’s old and common knowledge that you should have a care before looking a powerful wizard too long in the eye, but it’s not Newt’s soul that is read in that moment. In the eyes of Percival Graves he sees something dark, not the cruelty of Gellert Grindelwald, but the aftermath of suffering, and the sight of it stops him cold and prickles the skin at the back of his neck.

“I had hoped to speak to you,” Graves says to him. “Just to ah, congratulate you on- your actions. Though I hadn’t expected to run into you quite so soon.”

 _No,_ Newt thinks. _I’ll bet you didn’t. I could rather have done without it myself._

They talk, or rather Percival Graves talks, and if he’s anything less than the consummate politician Newt knows he must be then it’s only the way his sentences tend to trail off a little at the ends sometimes that shows the difficulty he’s having. Newt suspects he wants to be away from the man that apparently managed to stumble his way into defeating the greatest dark wizard for a century when he himself fell so damnably short, and so he’s surprised when Graves asks him out for a drink. So surprised he at first mistakes the offer for nothing more than a request for the location of the nearest pub, though of course Graves calls it a _bar_.

Somehow, unbelievably, they end up down the Black Dragon together. By this time Newt is ready to climb the walls to get away, because the echoes of Paris are still ringing in his ears and goddamnit but he can’t take any more of anyone else’s _pain,_ but Graves, for all the darkness in his eyes, all the watchfulness and the silences between what he says and what they both know must be hanging in the back of his mind, Graves keeps the conversation light, keeps it moving along until half a bottle of wine in he puts down his glass and says, “Fuck this, do you want something stronger? I want liquor. What’s good over here, do you know?”

And Newt blinks, but to his credit and maybe a little to his own surprise he says, “Not the firewhisky but they have Black Cat, it’s a type of gin. Do you drink gin?”

“Yes, I do. Let’s have it then.”

They buy the entire bottle, or rather, Graves buys the entire bottle and Newt, still on a clerk’s wage despite the book deal, doesn’t even try to stop him. They sit in the corner of the pub in the back roads of one of the more discreetly magical parts of the city, and slowly but with great certainty get entirely plastered.

“I heard about Paris,” Graves says. “Well, I read the report. The bastard.”

Newt doesn’t want to talk about Paris. He doesn’t want to think about Queenie or Tina or fuck _everything_ he doesn’t want to think about Leta, so he fills Graves’ glass and then his own and wonders if it’s rude to just down the whole damned lot and refill it again.

“It’s not up for discussion,” he says, and it must be the gin making his tongue sharper than it usually is, but Graves doesn’t seem to mind.

“No, I suppose not,” he says, and takes a sip of his newly refilled glass. “And for what it’s worth, neither is New York.”

Newt sits back in his chair and the good humour with which the statement is delivered catches him slightly off balance. “Then why are we here, Mr Graves?” he asks, taking a moment to let the alcohol settle in his stomach. It’s still burning in his throat, making him feel hot and cold all at once, like blue fire, like the darkness after the flames go out.

“I spoke for you today,” Graves replies, as though he hasn’t even heard the question. “In the Council. Said that in my professional opinion there have been extenuating circumstances and that any penalties for actions concerning that bastard should take those into account. I suppose take it as a thank you, and a ‘I don’t ever want to speak about any of this again’, you understand?”

“No, not really,” Newt replies, and Graves turns his head sideways to look at him. He has the most gorgeous eyes, Newt thinks, dark brown and expressive, and the jawline to pull off the type of handsome Newt knows he’ll never be. God, men like him don’t look at Newt like this one is now. Men like Graves are dangerous and interested only in their careers, in the power they can wield over others. In the maintenance of the status quo, no matter how unfair that might be.

Graves’ mouth twitches, his brow drawing down, as though he’s sorting through his replies and discarding each one. “Allow me one question,” he says finally, and Newt feels his stomach drop. He’s so close to saying no, to just getting up and walking, stumbling, out of here. Why is he even here anyway?

“How did you know?”

It’s the plaintiveness to his voice, the small note of disbelief that makes Newt pause. He can hear it beneath the soft American twang of his accent, and it goes right through Newt, a shiver from head to toe like a flash of cold water through his veins. It makes something low in his belly tighten, a response to that tiny thread of plea in the voice of a man known only for his power. He considers his answer slowly, moving with care through the lethargic wander of his thoughts, thinking only now that perhaps the gin had been a bad idea.

“I recognised his ambition, Mr Graves. Only Gellert Grindelwald would seek to make a weapon of a child to further his cause. Only he could be so cruel.” It seems fair, and it’s not a lie. It’s not the whole truth of it either though. Newt had known of Gellert Grindelwald long before he ever ran into the man. He’d known more of him than perhaps anyone else alive other than his own victims and even then. No, he has the machinations of Albus Dumbledore to thank for that, and briefly Newt closes his eyes. Goddamn Dumbledore. God _damn_ him.

When Newt opens his eyes Graves is staring out into the centre of the room, his eyes on the bar but his gaze far away. He seems to be taking this answer into sluggish consideration, and Newt watches him lick his lips and glance down into his now empty glass. When he turns back to look at Newt his eyes gleam with some emotion Newt can’t quite read. It looks a lot like gratitude, but he couldn’t say for what.

“Thank you, Mr Scamander,” Graves says, voice low and intent.

Newt doesn’t know what to say to that. It could be thank you for New York, but he’s not sure that makes sense. New York had been a year and a half ago now and there’s been plenty of time between now and then for thank yous. Not that he’s seen Percival Graves since New York, not that he’s _ever_ met the man in fact, he reminds himself. And now this, here they are in a pub in the back alleys of London, buzzed on wine and gin like two old drinking buddies. This isn’t like Newt, this is bloody stupid.

“Look, I- I’m not sure what’s gotten into me today, Mr Graves. I have to say, thank you for the gin, but I really think I ought to be going.” And then it hits him. Where the hell is he going to go? Back to his terrace house? No, not knowing how long the Ministry would keep him for he’s made arrangements for Bunty to take care of the beasts for the next few days, and she’ll owl him if anything happens, she really will, she’d promised. And, god, he could just send her home but then he’d have the house to himself and right now he doesn’t think he could face that. On the other hand, well, Bunty’s a sweet girl but the thought of her hovering, well-intentioned or not, it makes his eyes close and his mouth thin into a line. A sweet girl who will want to take care of him, but there’s nothing and no-one can take care of what’s in his head and making his chest feel strained and tight. A mess, a bloody mess.

“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you, Mr Scamander,” Graves says, but it doesn’t sound like he’s offended or like he suspects that he has. A platitude then, and Newt opens his eyes, feeling his head swim. The pub is thick with smoke and the smell of beer, and cutting through it all the lingering scent of Graves’ cologne. Newt looks at him and finds the man’s eyes on his face, examining him as though this is the first time they’ve seen one another. Dark hair, dark eyes, handsome in a rare way, handsome like the devil and Newt thinks _oh no, no, no-_

“Do you have far to go?” Graves asks slowly.

Newt can feel the weight of his presence next to him like he’s already leaning on him and this is going to go nowhere fast, or somewhere bad even quicker, but then he thinks of blue fire and Paris and all the things that have walked right out of his life without him ever thinking to grab for them because he’s really quite the fool sometimes, isn’t he? “That depends,” he replies.

Graves raises one eyebrow and leans in. It could be the innocent gesture of a man straining to hear over the background rumble of pub chatter. Newt thinks it’s not. “Bugger it,” he whispers into his glass.

Beside him, Graves dips his chin in a questioning look.

They go back to Graves’ hotel on the vague premise that it’s close, but mostly because there’s no way Newt’s taking him back to his quiet terrace house and the cold silence of the upper rooms. They apparate, which is an incredibly stupid move, and actually highly illegal while in a state of inebriation, but that’s something that doesn’t occur to him until many days later. When they get there Newt has the vague impression of marbled floors and crystal chandeliers because _of course,_ and then they’re in a sumptuous room of soft golden glows and Egyptian cotton. Graves runs his hand through his hair, and Newt doesn’t let him get as far as offering another drink before he steps in and kisses him.

To his credit, if he’s surprised Graves does not allow it to show. They shed outerwear, helped a little by magic made crooked by their drunkenness but nonetheless clear enough in its intent that buttons and pins, belts and hooks are all undone despite clumsy fingers and the close press of their bodies. Newt threads his fingers through Percival’s hair and tugs just enough that it earns him the tight grip of a hand to the back of his neck and the bite of teeth on his bottom lip. The other man’s mouth is hot beneath his and he tastes of gin and red wine.

“Newton, are you quite su-” Graves murmurs, and Newt hisses in frustration.

“Yes,” he replies, quickly. Then, wincing, “Please, just-”

Graves complies readily enough and pulls them both towards the bed. They make it in a wandering few steps until Percival’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and they go down together. Newt lands across him and when he shifts to kneel one leg on either side of Percival’s waist, Graves lies back and looks up at him, hair mussed, breathing harder than it should be. “Is this-?”

Newt shakes his head, wonders for a second if he’s the one pushing too hard, and pulls back, brushing his forelock up out of his eyes. The gin is a fire in his veins and the man between his thighs looks already ruined, lips reddened, hair a mess, eyes dark with arousal. He’s a hotter fire than the cold that’s been worming in Newt’s chest the last month, eating him up slowly from within, but he should have a care, this is rapidly becoming more foolish than perhaps either of them are prepared for. He leans back even as Graves runs his hands up his forearms to the crooks of Newt's elbows, fingers tracing lightly. Newt blinks at the feel of his palms, warm skin and the strength in his grip. His words are unsteady when he replies, “Yes, it’s fine, isn’t it? Is this fine?”

“It’s fine,” Graves says in a voice so low it makes Newt’s toes curl, then reaches up to drag him down into a kiss.

Newt may not appreciate the finer points of human interaction, but sex with men is simple. As long as the bloodlines stay pure the wizarding world cares little about such matters, although the accusatory gaze of the Muggles is ever-present and just as heavy as it always is. But then that’s why there are wizard districts and wizard hotels and Percival Graves has access to the best of these and all the self-confidence of a pureblood used to the security of his position. Newt doesn’t care, all he knows is the heat of the man trapped beneath his body and the way his hands are tugging at the fastener to Newt’s trousers. That and the hard press of their flesh between them.

Afterwards Newt lies on his side and feels the bed slowly rocking beneath him. He knows it’s a strange effect of the alcohol, but he’s slowly drowning in the soft warmth of a tension released and he cannot bring himself to stir. Percival lies on his back next to him, the palm of his left hand lying on the rise of Newt’s hip and it’s that small point of contact that lets Newt know that it’s okay, it’s fine, if there’s been any mistake then it’s not found them yet.

He falls asleep thinking this, warm for the first time in a month, and the certainty of it comforts him.

It’s Newt that leaves before the sun is fully up. He creeps out while the dawn is only just silvering the rooftops outside, pausing but a moment to look back at the man still tangled up in sleep on the bed. He’s beautiful, and Newt doesn’t really know what to do with that. Men like Percival Graves don’t happen to people like Newt, and even with the alcohol still in his system he knows it. He bites his lower lip and wonders if there’s any way he could stay, just a little longer, keep the dream going, and hold on to that warmth for an hour or two more.  _No,_ he thinks. _Just this._ And then _, I need to feed the beasts, they’re relying on me._

He leaves, closing the door quietly behind him and drawing down the blinds on a part of his life he’d never thought he’d encounter after New York, and which he expects he never will again.

Two days later an owl taps on his kitchen window and Newt, trying to keep a juvenile Niffler from making off with what's left of the silverware, unfolds the letter strapped to its leg with distracted annoyance. There are no official marks, no Ministry stamps, nothing but a scrawl of black writing.

 

_Drinks? I found a place that does Firewhisky._

__~PG._ _

  

“Oh,” Newt says to his empty kitchen. He stares at the casually written line with all the fixation of a Mooncalf on the moon. “Right then.”

That Graves would once more make contact with him is both bizarre and entirely unexpected, nonetheless it sends a kick of excitement through his belly, one that makes him wet his lips in slightly embarrassed remembrance. It _had_ been a good night, hadn’t it? Still. This can’t be wise. Percival Graves had been a brief, unexpected dalliance, a surprise opportunity and a satiation of physical needs. Men such as Graves are well out of Newton Scamander’s usual mingling circle, at least, the range of Newt’s mostly voluntary circle of friends.

Merlin’s black heart but he’d been fine though, hadn’t he? Dark hair, dark eyes, the low drawl of his voice in the shadows of the room, the grip of his hand at the base of Newt’s throat, the press of his thumb up and under Newt’s chin while they moved together, the heat of his body beneath Newt’s thighs, inside him while- he closes off the thought. While they did entirely inappropriate things. Good things though. Yes, very good things.

It takes him the whole morning to fret it over, but finally he puts pen to paper and writes a single, careful line.

 

_That will be fine._

_~_ __NS._ _

  

He ties it to his owl and sends her on her way before he has the chance to change his mind, then turns to look back at his kitchen. For the first time in a month, he doesn’t notice the cold.

 


End file.
